a grain, a pillar, a mountain of salt
by p-over-p
Summary: Lance McClain is a young high school Spanish teacher with a lot of heart and a nearly untarnished teaching record. Keith Kogane was his one, failed student. When their paths cross again, Lance finds good reason to set his years-old grudge aside. Unfortunately, he still has trouble reaching Keith. Enter the Parastronomy Club.


_A Pre-Start Start_

* * *

It wasn't a _bad_ house. A little small, maybe, and a lot sparse. Mr. Kogane led Lance through the living room, which bragged only a couch and a TV as amenities. The kitchen was similarly bare, with empty countertops and a magnet-free refrigerator. It was a stark contrast to _Lance's_ house, which existed in a state of semi-organized chaos, the result of a large household laying claim to a single home. _This_ house almost felt like a model; nice, but un-lived in.

They stopped in the middle of the hall. Music filtered through the off-white door, low enough that Lance only noticed it from just outside. Mr. Kogane rapped his knuckles against it. "Keith? Your tutor is here."

The clash of drums and wails of guitars swelled, startling Lance into a jump.

"Ah – Sorry," Mr. Kogane yelled over the music, his hand raking through his hair as he shot Lance a sheepish smile. "He's at that age, you know…"

"It's fine," Lance mumbled, even though it really _wasn't._ It was his first tutoring gig, and he was nervous enough without having to deal with a surly preteen.

"Keith!" Mr. Kogane's tone was firm, his voice loud enough to hear over the cacophony.

There was a tense moment. Lance looked over his shoulder at the front door, filled with a sudden longing…but the music lowered, and eventually clicked off altogether.

Mr. Kogane gave Lance a more reassuring smile and opened the door.

Lance's first thought when he saw the room was, _of course._

The walls and ceiling were painted _black_ , something Lance had only ever seen in movies featuring his least favorite character-types. But before he could cast too much judgment, a theme stronger than 'angst' started to make itself known. There was an official looking picture of an astronaut, blown up and signed, mounted over the desk. Small plastic stars were taped everywhere, glowing faintly in the dark room. The bed sported galaxy-themed sheets – and on the center sat young Keith, with his unruly mop of dark hair, thick brows pulled low over averted eyes. He was, frankly, sort of adorable.

"I told you I didn't need a tutor," he muttered into his hand, sending a glare at Lance.

Never mind. The kid was a little punk.

"Tell me with your grades," Mr. Kogane countered, reaching over to flick on the lights. "This is Lance. I don't need to tell you to behave, do I?"

Keith plucked at his blankets listlessly, dropping his eyes. "No," he mumbled.

"Good. Keith is all yours," Mr. Kogane told Lance. "I'll be in the living room if you need _anything_." His tone assured Lance that he _would._

Lance swallowed, lingering near the door and tipping back on his heels as Keith refused to look up from his bed. "So…" he started, drawing out the word. "We should…probably get started?"

Surprisingly, Keith immediately shuffled off of his bed and sank into a chair near his desk. Lance felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. If today didn't work out, he would be taking Nyma to junior prom on his _bike_ instead of the limo he promised her, and, really, who was he kidding – he wouldn't be taking Nyma to prom at all if _that_ happened.

"Your dad sent me a copy of your grades," Lance said. Keith shot him a look so full of horror he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. "It's all good, no judgment! I just need to get a feel for what you need help with. Seems like math?"

Keith crossed his arms, slouching back into his chair with a scowl. "I don't need help with math."

"O-oh," Lance stammered, embarrassed for misremembering. "Uh – one sec, let me…"

Lance swung his bag over his shoulder. His _open_ bag – the heavy (and, apparently, _useless_ ) Geometry book he'd packed flew at the desk, hitting it with a startling _thud._ "Shiiiii _iiiooooooooooot_ ," Lance spluttered, wincing. He hastily stepped forward to get the book, but his foot caught on a sheet of paper and slipped out from under him. Lance tripped forward, and his face met the side of Keith's desk. _Hard_.

"…Shit," Lance did say that time, because at that point, why not?

Lance's face burned in equal parts trauma and mortification. He wondered if maybe, _perhaps_ , Keith was big enough not to comment on what had just happened. A moment and deep breath later, Lance pulled back to check.

He had never seen a kid's face so full of pity and disgust. "Are you an idiot?"

Lance flushed hotter. "No! _You're_ an ass- um! I mean! Uhh…"

Keith smirked. _Man_ did that look douchey as hell on an eleven-year-old.

The humiliation blossomed into anger and Lance scowled, moving to gather the scattered contents of his bag. "No, no, I'm _fine_ , thanks for asking. I'll get this all myself, no need to _offer_ ," he grumbled, ire spiking with Keith's noncommittal hum. He continued to mutter to himself until he was plopping into the seat beside Keith, then he started flicking through the mess of papers, looking for Keith's progress report.

It was a fruitless search. Lance slumped forward with a deep exhale. "…What was it, again, that you needed help with?"

"You should probably give up on teaching."

Lance's mouth dropped open. "I'm not – that's not – _what's that supposed to mean_?!"

Keith shrugged, nonchalant and unimpressed. "You're not good at it. S'fine. You're probably good at _something_. Maybe clown school?"

"Yeah, I'm really going to take career advice from some _punk_ _kid_ ," Lance snapped, forgetting that he didn't even want to _be_ a teacher. "I'd be an _amazing_ educator!"

Keith scoffed.

"You know what?!" Lance stuffed his loose sheets into his bag, followed by the textbook. "Fail _all_ your classes, for all I care! Good luck getting into NASA as a middle school dropout!"

Keith's mouth dropped open, his pale cheeks reddening. "Wha – how did you – ?"

"Uh, it's obvious? The stars? The sheets? What kind of sixth grader has a _signed_ astronaut poster?" Lance jeered, waving a hand at said poster. "Newsflash, by the way, you need hella good grades to be an astronaut!"

Keith bristled, his small frame tensing. "Nuh-uh! You just need to be able to spin without throwing up, and run a lot, and hold your breath for a long time, and – stuff like that!"

" _Nuh-uh_ ," Lance mocked, zipping up his bag. "You need straight A's _and_ all that other stuff! Good luck, buddy, I'm sure you'll do _great_!"

With that, Lance swept out of the room, immensely satisfied with the outraged look he'd left on Keith. It was totally worth the awkwardness of slinking out of the house while Mr. Kogane shook his head from the couch.

* * *

On the bus ride home, Lance remembered that he'd been e-mailed Keith's progress report. He pulled his phone out to find it, just to _see_ – it was mostly B's, one C, and an F in –

Geometry.

" _Son of a_ —"

* * *

Nyma went to prom with Rolo.

* * *

" _We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why."_

Stephen King

* * *

Lance McClain loved being a teacher.

Even before he'd made it a career, he loved it. He loved tutoring middle schoolers as a high schooler, and underclassmen while in college, and when the thought of giving it up with graduation made him sad, he knew it was what he wanted to do with his life. The road to admitting and committing to it was, admittedly, not as clear. Teaching wasn't as glamorous or lucrative as Lance had always dreamed his career would be…but even that paled when compared to _the_ reason, the _real_ reason Lance found it hard to admit teaching was his dream. Something that he, as an adult, really should have moved past by now.

His first – _failed_ – attempt at tutoring.

It was a short gig with an abrupt end. Lance could still remember the shock on Mr. Kogane's face when he returned after that first disastrous meeting, but Lance had something to prove! …even if it was to an eleven-year-old. Then, after three measly sessions, Lance got the boot. Via _phone call_. From none other than the gremlin himself.

AKA Keith the emo tween that cost him a prom date.

AKA the kid sitting _right there_ , seven years later, in Lance's senior level Spanish class.

Lance couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.

Keith had grown his hair out – into a _mullet_ , of all things – and seemed to be trying out a fuck-you- _trendy_ style. I mean, a crop top _jacket_? _Combat boots_? Combine that with a glare that put off even the friendliest souls, and Keith was simultaneously Lance's most unique and _clichéd_ student. All he was missing was eyeliner and a wallet chain with spikes on it.

The part that irked Lance, though, was watching the girls in his class as they giggled to each other and snuck obvious glances at Keith. It wasn't _surprising_ – Keith was new, exciting, mysterious, and, okay, _not_ hideous. But Lance knew (and his precious students _didn't_ know) that _evil_ lurked beneath that confounding violet gaze. Or, you know, at the very least some _majorly_ bad manners.

The bell rang, interrupting Lance's thoughts and signaling the start of class. He clapped his hands together, the sound startling several students.

"Bienvenidos, señoritas y señoritos, a tú ultimo año de Español!"

Cue a disheartening amount of blank faces.

"Really? Nothing?" Lance sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Real talk, kiddos, today is the only day we should be speaking English. If you can't make awkward conversation about firetrucks and libraries after _three years_ , I'm sorry, but it's probably time to quit school."

The class chuckled. The class minus one Keith Kogane.

Lance held his grin, refusing to let one kid get under his well-loved skin. He plucked a stack of papers off his desk and started to hand them out, and a couple of the students groaned. "Ah, I see some of you remember last year," Lance told them with a wink. "For those of you who don't, surprise pre-test!"

"C'mon, Mr. McClain," complained a familiar voice from the back, a good-natured if a bit _lazy_ student named Antok. "This is our _fourth_ year, isn't that good enough to prove we know Spanish?"

"Good point, good point…Now say _that_ in Spanish."

Antok took the sheet of paper without further complaint.

Lance's lips curved into a sympathetic smile. "This won't be graded, so don't worry too much about it. Just need to make sure we're all starting in the same place."

Lance finished handing out all the tests and then moved back to the front, settling into his desk so he could busy himself with the second reason he liked testing kids in the beginning of the year – people watching.

Three years of teaching taught Lance to find ways to make quick connections. He would likely be unable to get to know _each_ of his students well, after all, but Lance could tell a lot about a kid from watching them take a test. Antok took a typical bare-minimum approach, marking off his answers without checking the questions. Plaxum, the school's resident bookworm, was diligent, reading each question with a concentrated furrow to her brow. She would definitely be beating down his door for extra credit by the end of the day. Lance didn't even have to look at Keith to know _he_ was probably tearing histest into spitballs to shoot at the other—

Oh, wait. He was…taking the test.

More, he was focused – like, _Plaxum_ -levels focused. He tapped the end of his pen to his chin before his face cleared, like _a-ha!_ , and he jotted something down. And, okay, it was a multiple-choice _pretest_ , it honestly didn't warrant _that_ much brain power. Still, it was far from the punk-kid approach Lance was expecting. Maybe he had made a rash judgment where Keith was concerned. He _had_ been a middle schooler when they met, after all, no one's their best in _middle school_. And sure, Keith still gave off a lot of the same unwelcome, angsty vibes… but hey, people had resting bitch face, that was a thing. Maybe it was Keith's thing.

…Then again, a strong work ethic couldn't undo that phone call. Lance continued to watch Keith through narrowed eyes.

By the time Lance was calling out _pencil's down_ , he was filled with curiosity, if not downright suspicion. Lance collected the papers and set to grading them while the class devolved into quiet chatter. Lance was a little smug to see many of his predictions proven right – A for Plaxum, C for Antok, F for the kid who fell asleep halfway through, and Keith…

Keith's was empty.

Lance guessed it was Keith's, anyway, since all the other students bothered to write their names. He flicked through the stack again, a vague deja-vu tickling his mind, but there was only one blank test, and one unaccounted student.

The bell rang, jolting Lance out of his search. "Oh, um, alright, no homework today – we'll discuss the pretest next class. _Adios_ , los veo pronto."

There was an idle chorus of _adios_ as the students shuffled out into the hall, then Keith walked by –before he could get away, Lance spoke up. "Keith, could you stay a minute?"

Keith huffed, but stopped. "What?"

"First, _rude_ ," Lance frowned, settling back into his chair. "You haven't changed, I see."

Keith raised a brow. "Do we…know each other?"

"Very funny," Lance grouched, eyeing Keith drily.

What he got in response was the blankest look to ever blank. Keith searched Lance's face and came back with zero recognition. "Are you, like, my old teacher or something?"

"Am I – do I _look_ old enough to have taught you before?!" Lance sputtered.

Keith shrugged, _nonchalant an unimpressed_. Lance's sense of deja-vu hit him again, strong and sour. He decided to change tracks before he said something stupid. "Your test was _blank._ "

"So?"

" _So,_ you can't turn that in, Keith."

"You said it didn't count," Keith countered, already turning toward the door.

Somehow, Lance managed to keep himself from balling the paper and throwing it at Keith's face. "The _participation_ counts," he explained, voice as deliberate and slow, as if he were talking eleven-year-old Keith.

"Oh well." Keith shrugged again, and started toward the door.

"This will be an F, Keith!" Lance called after him.

"Oh _nooo,"_ Keith droned into the hallway, not even bothering to look back before he disappeared into the crowded halls.

And _yup_ , Lance was _totally_ right, Keith was an emo-ridden, sarcastic, rude little _punk_! Some people really _don't_ change! Lance wrote Keith's name on the test himself and then, because he was petty, inked a large red _F_ on it. He smirked at the sight of it, but the humor slid away as Lance wondered…if not the _test_ …

What _had_ Keith been working on?

"Um? Mr. McClain?" Chimed a small voice.

"Hm? Oh. What is it, Plaxum?"

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading this first chapter!


End file.
